


to lovers as they lie upon

by firewoodfigs



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Blind Roy Mustang, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Angst, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, amongst other things, author is a cob of corn and a slice of cheese, is this fic an excuse for me to mash all my fave tropes together? probably, mustache-shaving and ballroom dancing, senseless and shameless fluff, some scenes inspired by final fantasy viii, there are two beds but they share one anyway, you know how it goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26648935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firewoodfigs/pseuds/firewoodfigs
Summary: In the aftermath of the Promised Day, Dr. Marcoh takes a little longer than expected to arrive on scene, and Captain Hawkeye has to take the place of being her superior’s caretaker in the meantime.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 26
Kudos: 114





	1. lay your sleeping head, my love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RainFlame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainFlame/gifts).



> Dedicated to Rain, who loves Roy Mustang and Squall Leonhart as much as I do. Thank you for being a wonderful friend, and just an all-around lovely person. You're incredible and I love you, and I hope you enjoy this lil' gift (which was supposed to be a one-shot that spiralled out of control) 💕 
> 
> Some references to Final Fantasy 8 will be made in the course of this fic as some scenes are inspired by it. If you know, you know; you’re the OG 😆 
> 
> Chapter titles will derive from Auden's [Lullaby](https://poets.org/poem/lullaby-0), one of my all-time favourite poems (and poets) :) and the song is [Eyes on Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HNefNLOHVYk), from FF8!! I just... love this song and game so, so much. Such a timeless classic :")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Captain Hawkeye moves in to take care of her superior officer, and they reminisce a part of their childhood fondly over glorious, yellow potatoes before getting stricken with nightmares.

**~x~**

Roy Mustang is only a little less than thirty when he’s declared legally blind. 

It’s a difficult pill to swallow, of course, for a man who’s always had a grand vision; a blind ambition for his country. But Truth works in strangely poetic, almost karmic ways, and he’s inclined to believe that this is a punishment well-deserved for all the past sins he’s committed. 

Except, he wishes he could go through this without burdening those around him. 

“There’s a step in front of you, sir,” his personal adjutant calls, the anxiety and concern in her tone professionally concealed but still discernible. To him, at least. 

A gentle, but firm hand reaches out to clasp his arm for support. 

“Thanks, Hawkeye,” he murmurs. _Sorry to be a bother._

“Not at all, sir,” she reassures. _It’s no trouble at all._

Hayate barks excitedly behind her as he tags along, mood unhampered by the prospect of relocating to a new place of residence. Briefly, Roy wonders if he’s wagging his tail as something damp and soft comes forward to sniff his legs. 

“We’re here,” she announces. There’s the sound of keys jangling before it’s inserted into the lock. And with a familiar click, the door opens. It’s unoiled: wood creaks disturbingly against marble as Hawkeye gently ushers him in. 

“Thank you,” Roy says, again. 

“You don’t have to thank me for every single thing, sir,” she chides gently. But he hears the tremble, the guilt in her voice, too. Even as it goes unsaid. 

_I’m sorry I failed you._

“Don’t blame yourself for this either, Hawkeye.” Is she smiling mirthlessly in resignation to herself at this point? Or is her jaw clenched tightly, obstinately, like it does whenever she’s inclined to disobey an order? One can only wonder. Without his sight, Mustang finds he can only rely on the little inflections in her voice, the slight change in pitch instead of the subtle changes in her expression. But it's enough for him. It will be. (It has to be.) “On the bright side, we’re both discharged now, and can probably avail ourselves of better food.” 

Hawkeye chuckles in agreement before directing him to his room. Mentally, Roy counts the number of steps that it takes for him to get there, committing it to memory. The room smells of dust and smoke. It’s strangely comforting to know that his other senses are still functioning normally, if not more acutely to make up for the one lost. 

It’s a somewhat pathetic reminder that he’s not entirely useless.

“Get some rest first, sir. I’ll make dinner for us,” she whispers. Her breath lingers on his skin; the scent of gunpowder and lavender hinting at their closeness. Their propinquity. Roy can almost _feel_ her eyes on him, in fact. And already, he finds himself missing the way her eyes brighten under sunlight and summer-time; how flecks of gold would dance in ochre to bring out the understated resplendence in them. 

Swallowing hard, he resists the urge to reach out for her amidst the sea of darkness. There’s no need to complicate matters further, really - 

But it’s Hawkeye who makes the first move. A calloused palm makes its presence felt atop his bandaged hand. It’s rough, but comfortingly familiar. 

A reminder that she’s very much _alive_. 

(For all that Truth had taken away from him, it had mercifully left that which was most important untouched.) 

Putting his hand in hers, she chafes his fingers gently to warm them. “Rest.” Riza’s voice is no louder than a subdued whisper, so as to avoid straining her still-healing vocal cords. 

Even so, she has an uncanny ability to make even a whisper sound like an irrefutable command. 

Chuckling in amusement and wonder, Roy raises his hand in a mock-salute to tease her. “Understood, Captain Hawkeye.” 

Notwithstanding his lack of sight, he can almost envision the shake of her head; the imperceptible smirk that must have made its way to her lovely visage by now. 

At least Truth hadn’t taken his memory away. He couldn’t imagine what that would be like. A world unguided by his vision was bad enough, but it’d be worse if he didn’t have his memories of _her_ to anchor him to reality. 

Hawkeye simply huffs, equal parts exasperated and amused. “I’ll be right back.” 

Exhausted from navigating around Central blind, Roy finally allows himself to lay down and rest. Momentarily, at least, before he attempts to learn Braille again and familiarise himself with the ins and outs of Ishvalan culture. 

Hayate snuggles into him, eager for warmth and affection, and Roy indulges him with a fond rub, following the sound of his excited breathing. 

It’s enough to lull him to sleep eventually. Far away from all the events that had transpired underground, from the reality that he’s lost one of his most vital senses, Roy ends up dreaming of the simple domesticity they’d once shared as children in the Hawkeye manor. Ginger tea and humorous limericks shared over evening-time as they listened quietly to old tunes from a vintage phonograph; holding Miss Hawkeye’s hand to console her when she was grieving over the death of a village dog that wasn’t hers; pans sizzling as they laboured over dinner together, debating whether mashed or baked potatoes were superior… 

**~x~**

The cast-iron pan sizzles as Riza stirs the grated potatoes around a generous serving of olive oil. It’s oddly nostalgic. It reminds her of the countless arguments she’d had with Roy when they were children; whether mashed or baked potatoes were better. 

Latkes, she decides with finality, trumped _all_ of them. 

Riza flips the patty as the bottom turns a crisp, golden brown, and does the same for the remaining batter left in the bowl until there’s none left. Once they’re all cooked to perfection, she drains them meticulously before lifting them with the spatula to place them on two china plates. And as an afterthought, she makes sure to include a generous portion of salad on each plate (like a petulant child, Roy’s always hated his vegetables, but there’s no escape now) before pouring a dollop of sour cream on top of the latkes. 

An excited bark sounds across the hallways once her pup takes notice of the dinner she’s painstakingly prepared. Riza smiles gently, affectionately. It’s a rare, fleeting moment of bliss - being able to enjoy a simple dinner with the two people (or, well, animals) she holds closest to her heart, unperturbed by the bigger perils of life and strife.

With practiced ease, she lays out the plates on Roy’s dining table, slicing his portion neatly before heading over to wake him up. Assuming he hasn’t already been awoken by Hayate, of course. 

Upon entering his room, she finds that _yes_ , Roy is wide awake; eyes glazed and unfocused as he attempts to find his way to the living room. 

By himself, no less.

Nonetheless, Riza is more than encouraging, more than willing to let him try. She picks up the shirt that he’d left lying on the ground furtively so that he doesn’t trip; so that he can walk freely without any unnecessary obstacles hindering his path. 

Much to her relief, her quiet movements go unnoticed. It’s not so much that Roy won’t appreciate such gestures - he _would,_ actually. 

But she knows him well enough to know that despite his current state, he still very much prefers to be treated as an independent. Not an invalid. He’s always been a little prideful that way, after all. A bit like Edward, whom he claims to hate with every fiber of his being. (Riza thinks it’s because it’s a bit like looking into a mirror; one that reflects and magnifies his flaws directly, tactlessly to his face. A straight blow to his ego, perhaps.) 

Hesitantly, Roy continues his journey. Every step is slow, tentative; a carefulness that doesn’t quite suit his typical rash impulse. Hayate, on the other hand, has already skittered out to the dining table and is perching excitedly underneath as he awaits an enormous treat. 

Roy reaches out to grasp at thin air, and more air again. He’s still adamant that he doesn’t _need_ a walking stick, and while Riza is inclined to say otherwise she allows him a moment of indulgence. 

Finally, _finally,_ his hands land on his wardrobe, which he relies on for support and guidance as he directs himself to the door. It’s deliberately left ajar. He smiles to himself as he inches forward, a wry smile that straddles the line between pride and humbled gratitude. Roy counts the steps under his breath as he does so, committing the numbers to memory - 

\- and almost walks straight into the couch. 

Before he can actually do so, though, Riza reaches out to grab his arm. “This way, sir,” she calls. 

“Sorry, Hawkeye,” Roy mumbles, abashed. In a somewhat futile attempt to search for her face, he turns around, and Riza witnesses the faintest trace color beginning to mottle his cheeks, still pale and somewhat pasty from the injuries he’d sustained. 

“It’s quite alright,” she replies sincerely, without so much as a hint of mockery in her tone. With all the patience in the world, she leads him towards the dining table. 

There’s the sound of a wooden chair being dragged unceremoniously across marble, and - “How very unbecoming of me, Hawkeye. It should be the man engaging in such acts of chivalry, not -” 

“Just shut up and sit down,” she interjects, promptly sitting him down as she brings his plate and utensils closer towards him. 

“Right. Thanks for dinner,” he grins. He doesn’t know what she’s prepared, but _oh,_ he can smell the potatoes, alright. “Potatoes?” He beams at her. 

“Neither baked nor mashed, I’m afraid,” she quips. 

The realisation that they’re reminiscing about the same memory does wonders for his mood. 

Chuckling, Roy fumbles around for his utensils, eager to try Hawkeye’s culinary creation. His fingers drift over nothingness, again, until he feels something like cool metal prodding his fingers gently. 

“Here you go, sir,” she says, curling his fingers around a fork. 

“Thank you,” he responds, affection unbridled this time. Hawkeye never fails to impress him: her unparalleled professionalism, her unrivalled skills at handling a gun, her unwavering loyalty - just to name a few. Above all, though, it is her infinite compassion, her gentle consideration for others that never fails to warm his heart. 

But he refrains from saying all of this aloud and dives right into dinner instead. Riza already knows, anyway. 

Gracelessly, he spears into a piece of potato to bring it up to his mouth. 

Roy only barely manages to stifle a moan when the first forkful makes it past his lips. God _,_ he’d missed this. Hawkeye’s cooking was just as good as he’d remembered, if not better. He hadn’t thought it possible for her cooking to have gotten any better since his apprenticeship, but apparently, it had. 

“Latkes?” 

“Spot on, sir.”

(A part of him wishes, more than anything else, to see her accompanying smile at the moment. Roy can’t help but feel like his blindness is tarnishing the beauty of the moment a little. Depriving him of his ability to fully and properly indulge in it.) 

Before he can compliment her cooking, though, she’s quick to shove a bunch of - leafy things? Oh god, _salad_ \- into his half-open, empty mouth. “And eat your vegetables.” 

Roy swallows dutifully, though not without a quick jab. “As you wish, _Captain_ Hawkeye _,_ ” Roy teases, emphasising her rank for good measure.

This time, Roy doesn’t need his sight to know that she’s rolling her eyes. 

**~x~**

Sleeping in separate rooms had turned out to be a rather awful idea. Neither of them slept well that night. Any wish for a restful, peaceful slumber quickly became a pipe dream as horrific, terrifyingly visceral nightmares of losing each other haunts them once more like a stubborn apparition that refuses to go away. 

Riza already knew this was coming, of course. It’s been an inevitable trajectory ever since the Promised Day. She knew Roy had been trying his valiant best to suppress even the slightest indication of fear, trauma, because it was precisely the same for her. But whether it's for the maintenance of pride, or to avoid worrying her, she's not quite sure.

Regardless, she's always been a light sleeper. And Roy’s shuddering, intermittent gasps for _her_ don’t go unheard.

Quietly now, Riza tiptoes into his room, taking extra care to not scare him with any unnecessary noise before coming around to his side.

“Sir,” Hawkeye whispers. Roy doesn't respond. His skin is sickeningly pale; beads of sweat trickling down like strings of pearl under the silver moonlight. “Sir,” she repeats, but it goes ignored. Again. Quite unfortunately for him, he’s still trapped within his world of unrelenting darkness; the gut-wrenching memory of watching her bleed to death: the only response she gets is a semi-conscious plea for her to stay alive, for her to open her eyes - 

“I’m here, _Roy_ ,” Riza tries again, resting a palm on his arm gingerly. 

The sudden physical contact is enough to jolt him awake. Roy gasps aloud, reaching blindly for her hand to reassure himself that _this_ isn’t a dream. 

Riza can’t help but think - she knows, actually - that it’s a rather impulsive and foolish move on her part, but she does so anyway. Shifting closer to him, she intertwines her fingers with his and thumbs the back of his hand soothingly, like how he used to do so whenever she found herself a terrified, quivering mess at the doctor’s. 

“I’m _here,_ ” Riza says firmly. 

It works like a charm. Roy’s breathing slows down a little, gradually, but the panic continues to manifest itself through his quicked pulse. 

And suddenly Riza finds herself overcome by a slew of emotion, an affection that threatens to overhaul all sensible thought of reason. Maybe it’s the unbearable thought of him having to endure all of this alone. By himself, without any sense of time (she’d spent enough time with him in the hospital room to know, to understand his struggles with differentiating between day and night). Or maybe it’s the fact that she could only stand and watch helplessly as he was crucified to the ground like a sacrifice for some warped ritual. 

Either way, it’s enough to propel her towards making a rather uncharacteristic, and frankly unwise offer. 

“... Would you like me to stay, sir?” 

There are a million reasons why this is wrong, forbidden. Anti-fraternisation laws (which she’s internalised fully by now; it’s something she’s had to acquaint herself with ever since she came to work directly under him), blurring the lines between professional partnerships and personal relationships, their status as two undeserving war criminals who still had a multitude of sins to atone for. Just to name a few. 

_But... just this once._

“Please,” he rasps, the subtlest hint of frailty seeping into his usually strong, domineering voice. Hesitantly, Riza moves to lay down on the empty side of the bed. They’re treading on dangerous territory, she knows, and she’s not normally so inclined to disregard the rules so flippantly, but… 

But soldiers are human, too. It’s easy for people to forget this when they witness a murderer, whose visage betrays no hint of fear or remorse before pulling the trigger. An inhumane soldier who’s willing to kill at order. At whim, even, if it means defending another’s life. A comrade. 

At their core, though, when stripped away of all their military titles and strategies, when they’re hidden away from the public eye; an eye that demands strict adherence to rules and regulations and propriety, it's simple. Beneath it all, they're really just two broken people who love each other. Two shattered, injured souls who complement and complete each other, like the sun and the sky; the stars and the moon. (Emblems that inked itself across her back and on his Gate of Truth, binding them together in soul and body.) 

Deciding that Roy deserved this sliver of comfort after all the hell he’d endured, Riza relents and slips her hand in his. He’s quick to bring her pulse up to his heart on instinct, without missing a beat. 

For a moment, it’s completely silent between them. But words aren’t necessary for comfort. This, _this_ is enough - the tangible reassurance that the other is, though considerably worse for wear, still alive. Breathing.

“Thank you,” Roy whispers, absentmindedly tracing abstract patterns against her skin with his fingertips. “I… Are you uncomfortable, Ri - Hawkeye?” 

“I’m fine, sir,” Hawkeye placates hastily, more so as a reminder to herself of the professional boundaries that still lay between them than anything else. Riza makes no mention of how his touch feels on her skin, how the physical proximity makes her heart flare, makes her stomach writhe with affection and desire. 

(How unfortunate, really, that Roy lives up to his infamous moniker in ways more than one.)

And yet, resistance is futile. Affection quickly translates itself into intuition. Soon enough, her legs are inching forward of their own accord to twine themselves with his, searching for a home. 

Roy responds eagerly in kind, fumbling around in his attempt to pull her closer, effectively eliminating whatever boundaries, brittle as they might have been, remained between them. 

It should’ve been awkward, really, considering their history. But Riza finds that everything about this feels so, _so_ right. Complete. Throwing away all sense of decorum, she drapes his arm around her waist and nestles closer into him. 

“We’ve done this before, haven’t we? As children in Tobha, after Ishval…” Roy sighs. Sentimalism drips from his tone, from his fingertips that brush across her features - first her forehead, then her cheekbones, as if he's trying to commit them to memory. 

“... Mm,” Riza hums idly, lulled by his gentle caresses as he hums softly to a familiar tune. “After all these years, it’s nice to know that your singing is better than your treacherous rapping,” she deadpans. 

“Why, of course. Do you remember this song?” 

“I do. We used to sing along to it by the fireplace." For the most part, though, Riza likes to believe that nostalgia is a wasted emotion. After all, there's no point getting all wistful and pensive over a time that can't be relived. 

And yet the opportunity presents itself to them now, like a forbidden fruit ripe for the taking. (Everything about this is wrong, unlawful. Borderline sinful, even. How can two criminals like them simply disregard their crimes against humanity and shirk their responsibilities, abandon their duties so recklessly just for the sake of finding a sanctuary in each other's warmth?)

“I’d like to hear you sing it again,” Roy murmurs against her skin. 

“... Are you asking me to sing you a lullaby?” Riza teases half-heartedly. Embarrassing as the idea was, she would do it, if doing so would bring him some semblance of peace. 

“Perhaps. I do believe you were under orders to ensure that your superior gets enough rest, and I can assure you that doing so will fulfil that objective,” he quips back in response. 

Riza thinks he presents a rather convincing argument, but a part of her is also apprehensive at the idea of doing so. It’s shyness, but also self-preservation. She’s nowhere close to being a professional singer, by any means. Most of the time, she only sings in the sheltered privacy of the bathroom, and it had been a long time coming since he’d heard her sing. Not since they were children, anyway.

“I didn’t know _singing_ for you formed part of said orders, sir.” 

“Well, consider it a humble plea, then,” he grins, unashamed. 

Riza buried her face into his collar. “... Just this once,” she whispers, feeling the heat rush to her cheeks. 

Roy only holds her closer, tighter in response, waiting encouragingly. 

_“… close enough for me, to feel your heart, beating fast. And stay there as I whisper, how I loved your peaceful eyes on me… did you ever know, that I had mine on you?”_

“I know you do… I did, too,” Roy murmurs, nestling closer to her until there’s no distance separating them. His voice is content, yet painfully wistful. Riza knows he longs to be able to see her again. It's the same for her, too. She wishes she could see her in this moment, witness the devotion, the adoration inscribed across her features. That nothing's changed between them - she'll still love him all the same, stand by him until he reaches the top.

And so in a rare moment of selfish indulgence, maybe greed, Riza allows herself this moment of weakness, too. _Just for this one night._ Tomorrow, she'd return to being Captain Hawkeye, but she’s more than content to bask in his warm affection and reciprocate with hers. For now, at least. 

“I won’t hesitate to shoot you if you drool on me,” Riza warns, but the threat beneath her statement is undermined by her subsequent actions. 

A brief kiss to the column of his throat, then two. (It’s avarice in its purest form, another sin to their already endless list, but Riza’s too enervated - physically and emotionally - by this point to care.)

“I’ll try not to,” Roy laughs. 

Gradually, his breathing deepens as his body relaxes in her embrace. Sleep washes over them at last, deep and restful as they find solace in the warm alcove of each other’s bodies like they’d once did as children huddled together under a blanket of scraggly linen and glittering stars overhead; infinite galaxies collapsing beneath their eyelids as they dream of the pleasant and delightful. 

_Sweet dreams, Roy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this simmering in my Google Docs for a while now, and I was in the mood for fluff this week because it's been a rather grueling one, so here I am xD I'm not entirely satisfied with the end product, tbh, but that seems to be a trend recently :') feedback and concrit are of course, always welcome and deeply appreciated! Please leave a comment or say hi on Tumblr (@firewoodfigs) if you have the time, I'd love to hear what you thought. :) 
> 
> Till then, stay safe and take care, everyone!! <3


	2. human on my faithless arm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawkeye is apparently a “pushy wife”, does the world a much-needed favour, and removes the unsightly thing on Mustang’s face. Also, the author attempts to write up a farming plan for Ishval.

**~x~**

The day starts out like any other: a rooster's awful, tone-deaf crowing barges through the walls at eight hundred hours sharp. The morning is insultingly warm, balmy. A gentle summer breeze rolls in through the portieres as sunlight shines on them to signal the inception of a brand new day. 

To remind Riza of the duties that await them. 

“Damn it,” Roy grumbles, still only half-awake. The displeasure is evident in his tone; in the way his brows knit together as his lips pucker up into an almost childish frown. Riza can empathise. (Secretly, she’d hoped that this brief moment of normalcy and intimacy would last for a little longer. Just for a little more.) “What time is it, anyway?” 

Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, Riza turns to consult his silver pocket watch that’d been left open on his bedside table. “It’s already eight, Ro - sir,” Riza rushes to correct herself, chastising herself inwardly for her momentary slip. 

_Just this once._

The mantra that she’d been chanting in her head last night comes back to mind then, stark and sudden like a meteor. But her resolve instantly falters when he pulls her in closer to his chest. It’s almost enough to lull her back to sleep; to give in temptation and forget about her responsibilities and loyalties. 

(The professional, not personal ones. Her sworn fealty to the state.) 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, grinning almost unabashedly. 

“Breakfast, then work,” Riza instructs, wriggling out of his hold to rake a hand through her bed hair. It’s wrong, she tells herself. Endearingly, contemptuously wrong on so many accounts. Yet even Riza would be lying if she said she hadn’t felt joy leaping up in her throat when she’d awoken to him by her side. 

To his lips, coarse like coral and dangerously close to hers. 

_This is not the time to indulge in some silly schoolgirl fantasy, for heavens’ sake._

Schooling her expression, Riza nips the dangerous train of thought in the bud before ushering him towards the bathroom. 

“This way, sir,” she calls, pushing the door aside to guide them into the bathroom. 

Grimacing — at the stark reminder of his blindness, and at the sudden reversion to formality, no doubt — Roy fumbles around for his toothbrush, irritation apparent from the string of Xingese profanities dripping from his mouth like drool. (She’s heard enough of those in their adolescence to understand, if not at least identify them.) 

So Riza decides to lend him a hand instead. 

Literally.

Curling his fingers around the toothbrush, she then squeezes a minty toothpaste on the bristles. First for him, then for herself. 

“Here you go, sir.” 

“Thanks,” Roy mumbles. Mortification streaks across his cheeks in an unmistakable shade of pink, as if his ego had been insulted by the gesture. Riza simply smiles and shakes her head. 

_Men and their pride._

Wordlessly, this time, she guides the toothbrush to his lips. Once he’s gotten the hang of it, Riza embarks on her own morning routine beside him.

Riza stares at her commanding officer as he brushes his teeth with the languor of someone who’s evidently not a morning person, reminiscing. Learning and observing. A frothy, white mess foams at the corner of his lips, covering a part of the grotesque hairs pricking out like thorns above his upper lip. Riza might’ve chuckled at the sight if not for years of military training.

Instead, she fills his mug silently and nudges him to rinse his mouth. 

“Thanks,” Roy garbles through the sloppy mess of fatigue and toothpaste. 

Resting her own toothbrush in between her lips, Riza brings him closer to the sink and guides his lips towards the mug with another hand so that he doesn’t get toothpaste and saliva all over her pajamas. 

Then again, it’s _his_ shirt, so she supposes it doesn’t really matter.

“Like I said, you don’t have to thank me for every single thing,” Riza says, once she’s cleansed her mouth of the bitter taste of fluoride. (Perhaps she should be thanking him instead, Riza thinks. The simple act of going through the motions with him brings such an immense sense of comfort. Relief. It’s almost as if they’re an ordinary couple living together, without any restrictions to render it illegal.)

“Nothing wrong with thanking my dearest subordinate if she’s not even getting a pay raise from working overtime, right?” Roy yawns, seeing right past his own reflection.

Morning breath now gone, he turns around to fumble for the door in his messy pajamas and even messier bed-hair. 

Riza’s not usually concerned with appearances. Working in the military meant that she had very little time or energy to care about trifles or vanities like that, especially since they contributed nothing to the efficacious clearance of paperwork. 

Still, she can’t help but grimace a little at Roy’s. For one, he still looks dishevelled, sickly. It’s a stark contrast to the charming persona he usually puts up in the office and the bars he frequents for intel-gathering. It’s also unsettling. She’s reminded of the fact that things have irrevocably changed, and not necessarily for the better.

And above all, the wicked _thing_ around his chapped lips is… unsightly. 

Actually, unsightly is a bit of an understatement. It’s repulsive. (Really, there’s no other word for it.) Roy hasn’t shaved in _weeks,_ and the recent development makes him look a bit more like some wonky, mustache-twirling antagonist in a political satire instead of a man who’s still hellbent on ruling and changing the country. 

So Riza tugs his shirt from behind to prevent his escape. 

“Not so fast, sir.” 

“What? I’m all done and I’m starving -” 

“You’re not,” Riza interjects, slathering another frothy, white mess around his mouth and chin before he even has the chance to ask — 

“What are you doing?” 

“Don’t eat it.”

Suspicious, Roy fingers a bit of the foam with a finger and sniffs it hesitantly, like Hayate does whenever Riza offers him a piece of lettuce instead of steak. 

His nose wrinkles once realisation dawns.

“Leave my poor mustache alone,” he jokes feebly. His protests go ignored. With a will as hard as flint, Riza holds him firmly in place and begins to remove the blasphemous growth of facial hair with surprising skill. 

“There’s really no need -” Roy tries again once more, without much success. 

“Shut up before I cut your lips.” 

The shaver continues to glide smoothly, easily across his chin. Soon enough, Riza’s done, much to her everlasting delight. (Not that she would ever admit it aloud, since his ego is already larger than Amestris itself, but he looks so much better and dignified without _it._ Handsome, even.) 

Roy, however, looks as though someone’s just poured a bucket of ice over his head. 

With a look of regret and utter grief, he sighs shakily and pretends to stroke an imaginary one underneath his now-hairless chin. “I was intending to leave this be, make it a full-grown beard. Your intervention was unnecessary, Captain.” 

“It was absolutely necessary, sir. It’s an unbecoming look for a man who wants to be Fuhrer.” 

“I’m sure facial hair can’t undermine my good looks -” 

“You’re terribly wrong on that note. Now do the world a favour and accept that you’re far better off without that dreadful _thing_ ,” Riza says sternly. Her tone brooks no disagreement, and Roy’s left pouting and scoffing disheartedly. 

“Quite the pushy wife, aren’t you?” Roy grumbles under his breath, earning him a smack on the shoulder. “Ow!” 

“ _Adjutant,_ sir,” she emphasises, thankful that he can neither see the blush crawling up her neck nor hear her heart thumping wildly against her chest. 

**~x~**

Falman and Breda arrive shortly after breakfast, a stack of books on Ishvalan culture and history in their arms. Much to her dismay, a seemingly endless amount of paperwork is also sandwiched in between them. 

Riza groans inwardly. Nonetheless, she accepts it gratefully and sets it aside for later. (It’s good enough that they’re allowed to work from the comfort of Roy’s home. Riza can’t imagine the rumours and cruel denigrations that will trawl down the corridors amongst the sea of bumptious, old _toads_ that tend to infest politics like pests if they end up knowing about his condition.)

In the meantime, though, work must go on as per normal — if not with even greater zeal, now that they finally have a chance to make amends and atone for their sins. It has to. Riza’s supposed to be his rock, his fortress. His most trusted and dependable aide. 

Not a distraction. (And really, she’s not supposed to be getting distracted, either.)

Riza’s thankful, at least, that the others are around now to keep her grounded. To keep their hands and minds from wandering towards dangerous territory, now chartered and explored. 

“How are you doing, sir?” Falman inquires politely as they begin to lay out the books intended for today’s perusal on the dining table. 

“Good. Ready as ever, Falman.” 

Riza reaches forward for one of the books reposed on the table. The tattered spine and yellowed pages are faintly redolent of sandalwood. His fiancee’s perfume, maybe? 

_Fiancee_. 

Something like envy and bitterness stirs in her gut uncomfortably at the word. And she knows, of course. She’s well-aware of the reasons behind the whirlpool of emotions treading through her veins like fire and ice. The events of this morning — last night, especially — only worsens it; reinforces the unattainability of it all. (A tiny bubble of hope creeps up her chest, that they’ll be able to relive it again tonight once everyone’s left and they’re alone, shrouded by the privacy of his walls. Riza quashes it just as soon as the thought conjures itself in her mind.)

Riza ends up excusing herself for a moment to retreat briefly to the kitchen to prepare tea and snacks for them. She brews a simple drink from berries and black tea leaves, a ritual that she often does to quell a storm brewing in her mind, then pours it into the delicate china cups that she finds in Roy’s kitchen. It takes her a grand total of ten minutes for her to get everything ready and placed neatly on a tray. Enough time for her to clear her mind of anything traitorous. (And unlawful, Riza reminds herself.) She has a reputation for being a stickler for the rules, after all, save in exceptional circumstances where it’s necessary to do so for the greater good.

This isn’t one of those. 

Breda flashes her a bright smile, one of obvious gratitude when she returns. 

“Thanks, Capt,” he says, already reaching gleefully for a muffin that she’d procured from the nearby bakery yesterday. 

“No problem.” Riza shrugs lightly and sips her tea as she watches the scene unfolding in front of her. Immediately after finishing his share of cake (with a lot more dignity than Breda), Falman sets out to unload an abundance of information once more upon his superior officer. 

Roy groans. Still, it’s obvious that he’s listening closely. His hands are interlaced, arms resting on the table sturdily: just like they always do whenever he’s seriously mulling over something. 

Riza lets out a small smile at their uncontainable zeal. 

“Alright, let’s talk about dual cropping, then,” he orders, stretching languorously on his chair. Proud as she is to see him approaching his work with so much alacrity and diligence, Riza can’t help but feel a little bad, too. They’d slept well yesterday. ( _Very_ well, in fact.) But she’s acutely aware that his condition has been wearing him out far more than he lets on. She can’t even begin to comprehend how difficult it must be to acclimatise to it. 

And yet, Roy’s been unyieldingly optimistic, even in the face of adversity and utter tenebrosity. 

So Riza does the same. Pushing her fears aside, she resolves there and then to be an equally unwavering pillar of support. For him. 

For Ishval. 

“We’ve concluded that wheat and cotton in Ishval would be helpful in rebuilding its economy, but is it suitable for their climate?” Riza inquires in a business-like tone. 

“You raise a fair point. Historically, cotton has always fared better in the desert compared to other crops since it naturally grows in warm climates. But wheat, on the other hand, tends to favour cooler weather, and growing grains in the desert will only waste huge amounts of fossil water,” Falman recites off memory, based on the research that he’s been evidently doing for the past few nights. (Painstakingly, if his dark circles are any indication.) 

Breda grunts in agreement. Mouth presently occupied with another cookie, he simply gives Falman a thumbs-up. 

Mustang flashes an appreciative smile, and asks, “Are there any plausible alternatives available, then?” 

“Corn, maybe?” Riza supplies, vaguely recalling what little she’d gleaned from her experience in the countryside as a young girl. “Is it possible to rotate corn and cotton, though?” 

“I don’t see why not.” Falman nods approvingly, then proceeds to lecture on the different costs and benefits between cultivating wheat versus corn in the desert. 

A couple hours later, the topic of discussion veers towards triple-cropping instead. It’s an ambitious plan, maybe a little excessive, but the unit’s always been a little like that. (Riza thinks this is hardly surprising, considering that they’re led by a man who’s driven by selfless ambition, whose ideals and hopes for the future have remained unfettered even after all they’ve endured.) Besides, it’s a good plan. It is both diverse and attuned to the specifics of the Ishvalan desert: its aridity, and its striking resemblance to a barren wasteland after a war that has rendered much of its soil infertile. 

“Where’s Fuery, by the way?” Riza asks quietly over the exchange about economics and agriculture in front of her. She bends down to give Hayate a fond rub on his head as he takes his afternoon nap underneath the table, in part also because she catches herself staring at Roy. 

At her commanding officer. 

Frankly, Riza can’t help but feel like she’s being a little opportunistic here. It’s almost as if she’s taking advantage of the fact that he can’t catch her in the act of staring to look at him so… so _openly._ (Then again, he does that all the time in the office whenever he thinks she’s not looking, so isn’t this just — fair game? Equivalent exchange?) 

Because loathe as she is to admit it, Roy _does_ have a tendency to be more charming than usual when he’s focused on a task at hand. Quite unlike the indolent procrastinator that he’s notorious for being; the one whom she reprimands on a regular basis like a child caught doing something wrong. 

Riza hates that he has a knack for overcomplicating matters. She also begins to regret her handiwork. 

“He should be here soon. Said he wanted to fix up some communications stuff back in the office before coming over,” Breda replies. 

“And… Havoc?” 

“I think you might be better off asking Second Lieutenant Catalina about his well-being.”

“Right.” 

Since they weren’t working in the same chain of command, the anti-fraternisation rules didn’t apply to them. And as expected, neither of them had been able to wait for much longer since the Promised Day, especially considering how despe- no, _deprived_ (Rebecca’s correction, not hers) they’d been of a suitable partner. 

Suddenly Riza finds herself back at square one again as jealousy rears its ugly head. 

Sighing plaintively, Riza moves to brew more tea and makes a concerted effort to focus on the task at hand. She forces herself to listen dutifully, jotting down notes in her neat cursive as she does so. Every now and then, she chimes in to offer her own honest opinion. It’s met with a boyish grin every single time, in a way that makes her heart warm and her throat ache.

Riza ignores it. 

_Focus._

For the rest of the afternoon, Riza takes down notes feverishly and sits as far away as she can from her commanding officer. 

**~x~**

A near-empty basket of snacks, three refills of tea and two and a half agricultural texts (courtesy of Falman’s concise summaries) later, Fuery arrives at last with a bag of treats for Hayate and none for Breda. 

“Sorry I took so long, Captain,” Fuery pants, face shrouded with sweat and exhaustion from the torrid summer heat outside. “I got caught up with some other matters earlier. 

With a mingled look of fear and gratitude, Fuery accepts the towel from her hands. Riza resists the urge to laugh. Courageous as he’d been on the battlefield, it appears she’s still very much capable of instilling fear in him. 

“That’s quite alright,” Riza says gently, flashing him a small, genuine smile to put him at ease. (She does, in fact, have a soft spot for the youngest member of their team, even if she’s not always demonstrative about it. She simply prefers people to not get all soft and sappy and annoying on her. Kind of like Roy, now.) 

Fuery reciprocates with a bright, broad grin. Once he’s done making himself look a little more presentable, he makes his way to the table and crouches down to give Hayate his much-anticipated treat. It’s gone in a matter of seconds. Hayate is left wagging his tail excitedly, though, as Fuery rises to tinker with Mustang’s phone line and work his magic. 

“This way, it’ll be easier for him to contact us, and vice versa, even from the comfort of his own home,” he explains. 

Riza’s smile widens as she nods approvingly. She’s heartened by the thoughtful gesture, and the fact that everyone is safe and sound, that they’re all reunited at last does wonders for her mood. Though her stay in the hospital had been a far cry from a carnival, she’s at least thankful that everyone else had gotten out relatively unscathed. Whether Havoc and Roy would ever fully recover was still an uncertainty, of course. 

But one thing was for sure: they would all do their best to keep moving forward. 

**~x~**

The team stays all the way till night time. Roy complains about their intrusiveness, says that they’re working him too hard and that he needs his rest. His half-hearted grumbling about their ostensible lack of curves and femininity and respect only seems to encourage them further, however. The team continues loitering around his apartment even after they’re technically done with their agenda for the day; talking about the changes slowly being effected in the military and the country. 

Afterwards, they have dinner together, a combination of pizzas that are a tad greasy and a few cans of cheap, piss-coloured beer that apparently tastes as bad as it looks. (Riza does not allow Roy or herself to drink, filling their mugs with tea instead. When he inquires about the mismatch between taste and smell, she simply grazes a knuckle over his scarred hand. Roy understands and accepts it. Begrudgingly.) 

Still, her heart is warm, exceedingly full. Riza falls asleep, feeling a lot more peaceful than she’s had in weeks. For once, thinks that, perhaps, a dreamless sleep would be possible. That she’d be free from the ghosts of the past; free from her secret fears that haunt her over her shoulders, ready to pounce at any given opportunity. 

It’s wishful thinking, of course.

The nightmares strike again as sleep descends upon her. It’s the sort of cruel, vivid dream that blends effortlessly into reality: an actual memory and an exaggeration of history all at once. In her dreams, Roy doesn’t just lose his vision or his senses. His words, trembling and almost inaudible, are slathered with regretful yearning; a promise that she’ll have to carry _their_ burden alone, now. Then Roy breathes his last, eyelids closed as his pulse ceases. 

And Riza lives. 

Something between a gasp and a muffled yelp claws its way out of her throat despite her best efforts to keep it in her lungs. Riza jolts awake with a start, panting as she buries her head in her hands. She hopes and prays, somewhat half-heartedly, that Roy hasn’t heard any of that. 

But he does. (Of course he does, Riza thinks. He, of all people, would’ve known that she wouldn’t have actively sought out comfort of her own volition.) 

The sound of footsteps, clumsy and uncertain, inches closer. Wood clacks against wood before the door opens to reveal Roy, leaning on a cane, face etched with worry even as he looks right past her. 

Riza doesn’t know whether to be honoured, relieved or ashamed that she’d made him abandon his pride and use a cane. A mixture of all three, probably. But he’s here, at least. 

Alive. 

Reality cradles her head, reminding her to breathe; the air like a bullet grazing her parched throat. 

_In, out_. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing. I’m fine,” Riza breathes shakily, struggling to master the emotions threatening to spill from her still-constricted throat, itching against the pink scar decorating it. Unconvinced, Roy remains standing where he is. “Really, I’m fine,” she repeats, moreso to herself than to him. 

“Bad dream?” he asks, already fumbling around for the edge of her bed.

Roy ends up stumbling over a half-bitten bone biscuit that Hayate had left lying around (she makes a mental note to admonish him for that in the morning). Fortunately, Riza reaches out to steady him with a firm hand before he can so much as plant his face on the cold, hard ground and ruin the source of his infracturable ego. 

“Be careful,” she chides. In a moment of self-indulgence, she allows her hand to linger on his arm, to embrace his warmth for just a second longer than necessary. 

_In, out_. 

Riza lets out a shuddering exhale. Slowly, her chest loosens, as does her grip around his arm. 

Yet Roy is anything if resourceful: he’s quick to take advantage of their close proximity, guiding himself closer towards her before she can release her hold on him. Uninvited, he settles himself on the edge of her bed, nearly losing his balance once more in the process. 

Riza tugs him by the shirt before he can fall. 

“Thank you, Captain,” Roy grins, as if he’d known this would happen all along. 

_Thank you,_ Riza wants to say, but his expression is one of immutable understanding. She foregoes the thanks, and instead says, “I’m… I’m alright now. Go back to sleep.” Roy doesn’t budge. “In your own bed, I mean.” 

“That hardly sounds fair.” 

“What’s _unfair_ is you depriving me of my sleeping space,” Riza huffs, exasperated. The brand of logic that so often manifests itself when she’s around him and his brash impulsiveness prods at her heart once more. Once. Once is enough. Twice would be beyond self-indulgence. Thrice, and it might just become an unkickable habit.

Besides, it will be a tight squeeze with her, Hayate and _him_. 

“I don’t think you’ll mind.” There’s a teasing, almost triumphant lilt to his voice now as he scoots even closer, now. 

The mattress dips from the added weight. 

“Sir,” Riza protests. To her disappointment, the protest is nothing like how she sounds at work when Roy is trying to wriggle his way out of paperwork. Rather, it’s a feeble, traitorous sound that pays homage to her deepest, darkest desires for comfort and reassurance. 

“What?” he grunts, struggling to adjust himself on the bed. 

Riza makes no move to push him away. 

Hayate whimpers pitifully at the sudden intrusion. Riza cradles him gently in her arms like a mother holding a newborn infant, soothing him back to sleep while simultaneously preventing him from getting flattened by Roy’s unwitting strength. 

“That’s the problem, sir.” 

“You’d let a _dog_ on your bed, but not me?” 

“Yes.”

Roy, ever dramatic, looks like he’s well on the verge of tears. “How cruel, Hawkeye.” 

Riza rolls her eyes. How is it possible for someone to be a politician, a veteran of war, and a needy, hopeless child all at once?

“You’re a lot bigger than he is.” 

“Point taken. But the last I recalled, the bed I bought for this guest room wasn’t all that small.” 

“Was that intentional on your part?” 

“Maybe,” he smirks, and fumbles across slopes of cloth and linen to reach for her arm. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s sleep.” 

“Sir -” 

“I won’t tell if you won’t. Besides,” he adds, in a haughty tone that speaks of both folly and wisdom, “A secret like this can’t compare to the ones we’ve kept in the course of overthrowing the government.” 

“ _Sir_ ,” Riza tries again, more stern and insistent this time. 

“What’s one more broken law, right? Besides, we’re both pretty good at keeping secrets. Especially after years of undercover work.” Roy mumbles sleepily.

Riza sighs. For once, Roy makes sense. Not to mention that she really, _really_ needs a good night’s rest, and Roy’s presence will guarantee that without a doubt.

“Fine,” Riza concedes, reluctantly. It’s the sensible, pragmatic thing to do, she tells herself. Nothing more, nothing less. 

“Good. Now go to sleep. You must be tired,” he comments, already making himself comfortable on her bed. 

Riza obliges. Once she’s set Hayate down by their feet and ensured that he’s safe from turning into a pancake, she lays back down and turns to face Roy — her childhood friend, her commanding officer, her closest companion, her secret lover and everything in between — relishing in his warmth for comfort. 

And Roy knows. He presses a kiss to her hair, matted from sweat and panic. 

“I’m here,” he whispers, responding to her deepest fears, her biggest nightmares — even as she makes no mention of them. 

“I know,” she sighs, running a thumb across his jaw. Riza marvels at the strength in his countenance, at the way tenderness and fortitude glimmer in his inky eyes despite the fact that he’s been stripped of his vision. Gently, she lifts a hand over his eyes and draws them shut. (It’s nothing like her nightmare. He is here, now.) “We should sleep.” 

Roy smiles widely as he strokes her hair. Then he presses another kiss to her forehead. The gesture is chaste, tender, but the effect it has on her is inexplicably profound. 

“Okay. Sweet dreams.” 

“You, too,” she murmurs, voice nearly cracking. 

Very gently, so as to not cause any unnecessary disturbances, Riza turns skyward to face the ceiling and stare at the myriad of tiny coloured dots that make up darkness. A dark, quilted melancholy begins to descend on her like a heavy blanket as she thinks of just how burdensome she’s being; of the colorless world resting beneath Roy’s eyes. Roy, whose world is made up of vibrant golds and reds; colours as striking as his seemingly obnoxious persona. Roy, the boy in her youth — the only person who’d bothered to stop and admire the roses that she’d so painstakingly pruned to give the hollow manor some semblance of life. Roy, the man with a grand vision of changing the world, of bettering the lives of the citizens who he’d readily sacrifice himself for. 

The choking feeling returns. 

It’s not an emotion that Riza is unfamiliar to. After all, affliction and affection have always been intertwined where they _’_ re concerned. But it’s not one that gets any easier to deal with, even after years of experience. Guilt bites at her, gnawing at her heart like a pestilent rat — 

“Thank you,” Roy murmurs, turning to search for her face. She brings them up, and he wastes no time in cradling her face like he’s molding precious clay in his hands. “Riza.”

The darkness blurs, black morphing into tendrils of gray as starlight creeps through the window panes. 

Roy swipes at her cheek. Remorse laces the sweet gesture. “Sorry to put you through all of this.” 

“None of this is your fault, Roy. I’m fine,” she insists. 

“I’ve made you cry again, haven’t I?” 

“You didn’t. I’m just…” _Weak,_ she wants to say, but the word cuts her throat like a double-edged sword as yesterday’s memories — memories of their shared vulnerability — returns. 

“Human,” he finishes. Roy loops an arm around her waist and brings her flush to his chest; closer to his heart. “You alright?” 

“I will be,” Riza manages. Her voice is hoarse and weary, the way it’d sounded after she’d gotten strangled by Pride. (Somewhat ironically, Riza realises that it is pride — both the monster and the sin — that had deterred her from seeking comfort in Roy.) “You should worry about yourself.” 

“I’m fine. As long as I have you by my side,” and she hears the smidgen of vulnerability in his voice. Yet, there’s something like pride and gratitude, too, from the indefatigable knowledge that he’ll always have her for support. 

“The same goes for me. Go to sleep, Roy,” she murmurs, tugging the blanket up to his shoulders. 

In the darkness, Roy threads his fingers through hers, gently stroking her back before ghosting his thumb across her wrist. Then he brings her hand up to press a kiss into the back of her palm. 

“I’ll do that, in a bit.” 

Riza sighs, inhaling deeply as she tries to regain her bearings. Roy does the same. His chest moves against hers, silently encouraging her to find a steady rhythm in him. Warmth blooms in her chest, settling inside her like a sprouting seed, growing and expanding until it chases the thorny patches of feverish panic away. And in the deafening maelstrom, the darkening nightfall, Riza clings on to every rise and fall of his chest; every exhale and inhale until her throat loosens and her mind empties itself. 

Her sleep is blissfully dreamless. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!! :') So sorry for the radio silence over the past month - the bar exam was, to put it mildly, a bit of a wild ride. My skin and eyesight and writing have deteriorated gravely over the course of the last month, and I had to take a break from using my computer too much because I was just so freaking tired from all the last minute cramming and just, the overall intensity of the examinations. We had 8 exams jammed into 2 weeks, which in hindsight sounds pretty inhumane, but I'm just glad to be done. Did I pass? I have no idea, but fingers crossed I did so I don't have to redo this dang... thing. xD 
> 
> I'm not fully satisfied with how this chapter turned out, but then again, I never am, haha. I'm just gonna upload this before I sleep so I don't fret over it LOL but please leave a comment if you have the time, I'd love to hear what you thought!! <3 or come say hi on Tumblr if you're there - I'm @firewoodfigs :) 
> 
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> Apologies as well if there are any inaccuracies about the farming plan I concocted here - I live in a very urbanised area, although it is a lifelong dream of mine to retire in the vast wilderness or a farm filled with an abundance of small, round, fluffy things. I also didn't intend to focus all that much on Ishval for this fic, but I thought it'd be nice to explore a bit of the team's dynamics and the execution of their shared goals after the Promised Day. :) I also wrote the last part literally right after I had a panic attack (I'm all good now!), so pardon me if it's a little disjointed/raw. I wanted to explore more of Riza's vulnerabilities and her constant struggle between duty and desire, and above all, the guilt that must have ensued from feeling like she'd failed to protect Roy as his appointed bodyguard, etc. Writing from her perspective is always a bit of a challenge because she's such an incredible character, but I hope I did her justice ;v; 
> 
> Also, a brief update for readers of [memento amare](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24862408/chapters/60147661) \- I'm currently tying up some loose ends for the next chapter, and I'm hoping to get it up maybe some time next week or the week after :) I'm on break now until January, so I'm gonna try and do as much writing as I can before I commence work! Yay!
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> Feedback and concrit are always welcome! :) I hope you're all keeping safe and well, and happy holidays to all of you 💖


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